Ocean Vuong — Grief, language, family and immigration Transcription
I think poetry is one of our oldest and most advanced technologies because it’s about language. And, I think, one of the great power of the poet is to reclaim how we use language for each other. And I think so many of us often, the cliche is that we, we should call our mother. We should say hello to our mother. But what happens if we spend an entire lifetime saying hello, how are you, and yet we don’t answer that crucial question? How often we talk on the phone and we just talk about the weather? How are you? Great. Fine. In these instances, language fails us. It gets in the way of each other. And I think the beauty of poetry is that it has no premise. It doesn’t need to introduce itself. It cuts right to the core when you open the poem. No one is clearing their throat.
When my mother passed in 2017, my whole life kind of contracted into two days. Today, when they are no longer here, and yesterday, the immense vast yesterday when they were here. And I think the beauty is that we are all going to lose our parents and in this sense, death is the truest thing that we have because it’s the one thing that binds us together. It’s one thing that we are all heading towards. You know, we live this busy lives and we spend so much of it trying to turn away from death. The movies, the films, the art, the dinners, the conversations. It distracts us from this final destination. But when language lifts that veil we can see each other. We can see each other and say ah you’ve lost your mother too and that simple sentence is so powerful because language cuts through even the body. We can touch each other and we get only as close as the skin but when I’m speaking to you and when I’m using my language well and with care, with intention and purpose, my words go right into you and you to me and that to me it’s still sacred. It’s the most magical thing that we have as a species and in this sense, I’m really proud to be able to be a poet.
It perplexed her, you know. Why would um, all these folks come to hear your sad poems you know. And, but, when she came to my reading, she started to see how my language landed in other people’s bodies and after a while she started to position her seat to look at the audience. They were a great fascination to her. It was only until she saw the reaction of the audience that she realised the power of words and then she came to me one day she said: “I get it, they looked different, people’s faces change when they’re listening to your lectures, to words.” And I think even though she didn’t understand what I was saying, she could see and witness that there’s a magic.
Learning how to write is learning how to know. Writing is a means towards knowledge and when you have knowledge, you start to have power and agency in your own life. I have many peers who are writers who write their first books when their parents are long gone so I feel really fortunate and blessed that my mother got a chance to witness the sum total of my work. I come from a line of folks who worked so that I could do my work. And that’s the great cost. It’s expensive to think. It’s expensive on the soul and the body and the pocketbook to spend your time thinking. And my thinking was made possible by the Vietnamese immigrants who worked in my family to make it so that I can think.
“The work of writing is the practice of care.” — Ocean Vuong
“Who am I? Where am I? And where am I going? These are basically the three fundamental questions we ask ourselves every day behind every decision. I want to write about that. I want to write about that no matter how old or young you are. Where you come from. Human beings are ultimately asking ourselves these three questions over and over again throughout our entire lives. And there’s no one answer or truth to life. I used to think I would only write when I figured life out. But there is none. Life is messy and will continue to be messy. Life is about organizing and untangling this messiness. I want to write about that.”
“What do you think it is that we are trying to untangle? This messiness?” He asked a question that I’ve never truly thought about but the answer jumped into my mind right away the moment he finished asking the question.
“I guess it’s ourselves.” I let out an uncertain laugh as having such a conversation in front of an intellectual was a humbling experience.
He’s one of the few people in my life who still values the power of conversations. You can always tell that by how attentive they are in holding a conversation, the eye contact, and the way they pause before they speak again because they are truly listening, instead of thinking what to respond. He pulled out his dump phone, long-pressed a button, and then put it back in his backpack. He refuses to carry a smartphone so all of our communications are either in-person or proper emails. The ones with a subject, greetings, and all the best.
“Holding your phone while talking to somebody implies that this person can leave anytime. They can just disappear into their phones. And why would you invest in a conversation when you know the other person can leave anytime?”
Since I could remember, I was drawn to the concept of deliberately not choosing the fastest way. A walk. A multiple-day hike. A slow conversation with pauses in between. A handwritten letter. A homemade cake. When the whole world strives for efficiency and KPI, deliberately slowing down feels like an act of rebellion. I sent out handwritten letters and postcards with delayed greetings and ruminations. I walked for two weeks. I took the longer detour. I write so there is a distance between my thoughts and the written symbols that allow care to come in. Care can only exist under time. It’s an act of rebellion in a world competing who care less.
I have a dear friend in my life whenever we meet we go on long walks. Hours of walking along the bustling intersections of Taipei. We wouldn't care about the traffic. We would walk along the noises and smells, depending on where and when you walk. I remember him carrying my heavy backpack because I was so used to moving between cities so I would carry everything I needed. I joked I put some stones inside and he would carry it for the remaining blocks. More than once, I thought that perhaps we could develop something more than simply walking along Taipei City. After all, how can you not fall for somebody with whom you can simply walk and talk for hours and hours, plus carrying your heavy ass backpack? But the art of long walks and talking is simply so great that I wouldn’t trade anything else for that. There is this pure and delicate magnetism between two people who simply walk and talk in parallel. Your body is moving therefore your thoughts are moving too.
There is a pureness in the care of prolonged undivided attention you put into being deliberately slower.
In a time where everyone is hurrying you up, deliberately choosing to be slower seems to be the easiest way to unfold the beauty of care in between.
